


Recreation

by Skyzuki



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Awkwardness, Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Happy Ending, Horseback Riding, Implied Sexual Content, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon, Summer, Summer Vacation, this is so self indulgent im so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 04:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15789270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyzuki/pseuds/Skyzuki
Summary: “You’ve got freckles.” He says, as though he is just coming to realize this. Thumb tracing Ancel’s cheekbone.“I’ve always had freckles. You’ve seen every part of my body, you know this.”“Yes, but they’re darker now. More prominent.”“Is that a problem?”A flash of confusion crosses over Berenger’s face for a moment. “Not at all. Quite the opposite, actually.”





	Recreation

The summer following King Laurent’s ascension, Berenger extends an invitation.

“The estate is in Ladehors, near the coast. I have no reason to go alone, but if you would accompany me—”

“Are you asking me on holiday, Lord Berenger?” Ancel asks with a sly smirk and a cocked eyebrow.

“Not exactly, I wouldn’t be free of responsibility I—”

“I’ll go with you.”

*

In the morning, they go riding.

Much to Ancel’s dismay, as the sun beats down on him and causes the smell of horse to become more overpowering and unbearable. He can feel his delicate skin reddening as soon as they step outside.

The fields are rampant with strange, flying insects and small animals that pose the threat of spooking one of the horses. The tall, unkempt grass does nothing for Ancel’s anxiety either, the possibility of an unseen hole or alcove could potentionally cause his mount to trip and crush him.

This horse also happens to be much taller than Ruby—the strawberry roan that was a gift to him from Berenger—meaning that he struggled and failed to sling the saddle over its back, thwarted by both the weight of the tack and the height of the animal.

(Berenger, upon seeing the struggle take place, offered to saddle the horse for him. Of course, being at least a head taller and much more experienced in the act of saddling horses, he had no problem with the task.)

Ancel can feel his thighs chafing, even through the fine blue suede of his riding breeches. His back aches with the strain of keeping his posture balanced, and he is higher strung than usual on this unfamiliar horse that has no reason _not_ to buck him off.

Berenger rides ahead of him. Relaxed and turning to glance over his shoulder at Ancel on occasion, smiling a little bit. Ancel has learned, in his time with Berenger, not to pretend. He does not pretend to share the same affinity for horses that the other man does, he no longer pretends to enjoy poetry or bland literature. But Berenger indulges his love of court gossip and fashion and frivolity, so Ancel finds it in himself to partake in some of Berenger’s hobbies as well.

 _If Berenger were any other man,_ Ancel thinks, _I would never put up with this._

There is no resentment in his thoughts, however. He feels a smile of his own tugging at his lips, despite himself. Even as the sun burns his fair skin and the horse blows dust from its nose, suddenly, causing him to startle and nearly jump from the saddle.

*

In the evening, Ancel lays his head on Berenger’s chest as he reads aloud.

There is a fire burning in the hearth, though the warmth isn’t needed. The faint hum of cicadas and the chirps of crickets can be heard from outside the cracked window. A copper bowl filled with freshly ripe strawberries sits on the table beside them, as well as a cold pitcher of water. They rest on a velvet chaise that is slightly too narrow, forcing Ancel to lay half on top of Berenger.

Ancel wears one of Berenger’s undershirts— oversized on his lither frame, unlaced collar slipped down to reveal a sun-reddened shoulder—and nothing else. The words being spoken are mainly lost on Ancel’s ears. Limbs heavy with a desire for sleep, he listens to the soft rumble of Berenger’s voice. His eyelids droop further when he feels a gentle hand begin to card through the long, ginger waves of his hair.

Moments pass before Ancel realizes that the voice has stopped, the book of poetry lying discarded next to the bowl of strawberries. All of Berenger’s attention is on him.

“I refuse to come in contact with the sun ever again.” Ancel murmurs into the soft cotton of Berenger’s jacket.

“Afraid your skin will start to match your hair?” Berenger teases, pinching the end of a lock for good measure.

Ancel looks up with a sour expression that is immediately soothed away by the gentle kiss that Berenger presses to the tip of his nose.

“You’ve got freckles.” He says, as though he is just coming to realize this. Thumb tracing Ancel’s cheekbone.

“I’ve always had freckles. You’ve seen every part of my body, you know this.”

“Yes, but they’re darker now. More prominent.”

“Is that a problem?”

A flash of confusion crosses over Berenger’s face for a moment. “Not at all. Quite the opposite, actually.”

Ancel arches a brow, bracing his hands on Berenger’s chest and pushing himself up to a straddle and leaning in close.

“Tell me what else you like about me.” He whispers into Berenger’s ear before nipping playfully at the join of neck and jawbone.

*

“Thank you for coming.” Berenger murmurs softly into Ancel’s naked shoulder, voice laden with lazy tenderness.

Ancel snorts. “Bit of a crass statement, don’t you think?”

Berenger shifts his weight to look up at him, brown eyes unimpressed but glinting with an overall fondness. “I mean it,” from where it lay on the sheets, Berenger cups one of Ancel’s hands with both of his. “I—enjoy having you here.”

The honesty of the moment causes something in Ancel’s chest to feel tight, and he takes a brief moment to survey his surroundings. Never—not as a pet, not as a young man, not as a boy from a backwater village—would he have thought that he could have… _this._

“I enjoy stealing you away from your work long enough to appreciate you.” Ancel says, pressing a small kiss to the space in between Berenger’s brows.

There is a period of silence, after that. The incessant chirping of crickets seeming to grow louder with every passing second. They gaze at each other, the air somewhat tense between them. Berenger’s grip on Ancel’s hand grows tighter by the second, like he is afraid that Ancel will slip away into the night if he lets go now.

“I love you.” Berenger blurts, suddenly, as if the stress of holding those words in was enough to crush him.

Ancel does not say anything, because he simply could not have heard the other man correctly.

“I—I mean to say, that I appreciate you, as well… I enjoy your company.”

He’s rambling, trying to correct himself, futilely. Ancel opens and closes his mouth a few times, he has so many questions but none of them will surface, not now.

_Why me? How long? Why tell me now? Are you sure?_

“I’m sorry, it was bold of me to proclaim something such as that so suddenly. I shouldn’t have—”

He’s still rambling, and Ancel needs to shut him up. Now.

The kiss, when it happens, is like none other that Ancel has experienced in his years of work. This kiss is different because Berenger loves him, and Ancel can feel it. Bookish, compassionate, handsome Berenger loves him.

Ancel feels himself laughing against Berenger’s mouth, breathless and giddy.

*

The sun is just beginning to crest over the mountains, and neither of them have slept a wink.

Ancel lets his fingertips lightly trace aimlessly along any bit of Berenger’s skin that isn’t obscured by the fine satin sheets. _Always modest,_ Ancel admonishes to himself as he reaches the fabric at Berenger’s lower waist, _even now._

Berenger is gazing up at him contentedly, an arm slung over Ancel’s torso, a slight smile on his lips.

Ancel considers him, thoughtfully; considers his brown eyes and his morning stubble and his mussed hair. He considers the collection of brown jackets, and the shelves of poetry books, and the stables full of prized horses. He thinks back to the first time that Berenger offered to each him to read, an offer that Ancel initially refused but promptly revisited.

“I love you, too.”

The words sound wrong coming from him. Stilted and strange, like he does not quite have the right to speak them aloud.

“I’ve never said that before, not to anyone.” And then, when Berenger looks like he is going to refute this claim, “I mean it. I’ve never—I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about that.”

This time, it is Berenger who initiates the kiss.


End file.
